Sunday, June 14, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Late Fees" by Mark Justice

It’s not even ten o’clock yet, and they’re out there already, faces pressed against the front window, eyes staring dumbly inside.  Hell no, I’m not going to open yet, fuckers!  It’s not ten o’clock!

Look at them, hands running up and down the glass, groaning.  I can hear them groaning, for God’s sake, groaning, and for what?  It’s Tuesday, fucking New Release day.  No matter what the hell it’s like outside, they’re out there.  Every Tuesday, it’s the same thing.  They shamble up to the door, pull on the handle a few times, then fumble back.  Honest to God, they look bewildered, all bouncing off one another, like dumbass drunken bastards.

What?  Showing me your watch and pointing to it isn’t going to make me open the door one minute before I have to.  I don’t care if you freeze your assess off.  Can’t you see?  Four minutes until ten?  Hello, you dumb sons of bitches, get a fucking clue here.  Groan all you want.  Stand still or rock back and forth.  I don’t give a shit because we’re not open.

You mean you’re telling me that you have to be here the minute we open to get your copy of Titanic II: Jack’s Still Dead or Cookie Monster Eats Fuckin’ Big Bird?  You think some other bastard’s going to get it before you do, dumbass? Just look at ‘em.  Yeah, I see you brought your tape back.  Thanks.  Do you see the fucking return slot in the fucking window?  Yeah, just put it in there, retard.

God damn these dead fuckers already because it’s almost ten, and I’m going to fucking let them have it when I open the fucking door.  Oh yeah, they’re getting all excited when I come to the front door and jingle the keys.  They all look at them with their glassy eyes and gaping maws.  Dead already, and they don’t even know it, dumbasses.

I fumble the keys a little before I put the master key in the lock.  The look of anticipation on their faces is priceless.  There’s a fucker born every minute, and I’m going to rent some dumbass movie to all of them.  Oh, the key’s in the sweet spot.  I turn it, unlock the front door, slip back inside quickly and stand behind the counter.  They struggle to get the door open all the way then spill in like entrails from a gutted deer.

There they go, wandering around, looking stupidly at the monitors.  Hey, dipshits, the movies are on the shelves.  Over here, they’re arranged alphabetically, not that any of you dumbfucks would care.  Yeah, that’s right. Just take a movie off the shelf and put it anywhere you damn well feel like it.  Nice.  Thanks, tard, but how about putting it back where you fucking found it?  Is that too fucking much to ask?

What the hell are you doing standing under the monitors?  Reaching up isn’t going make the movie come to life or VHS tapes or DVDs to pour out.  What, think this is Vegas or something, pull the handle, hit three cherries, and a tape or two will pop out at you?  Or maybe you’re just mesmerized by all the bright lights and movement.  Ooh, that’s right, dumbfucks.  Worship at the video altar.  At least it keeps them occupied for a while so that I can get some work done.

I see them wander between the rows of movies, jerking their heads up and down, trying to find something that interests them in their own stupid way, I guess.  Hey, hey, fuckass!  See that?  What does it say?  It says “Western,” ‘cause that’s where the John Fucking Wayne movies are.  What the hell are you doing trying to drop off your copy of Thelma and Louise II: Tagged and Bagged there?  If you don’t want the fucking tape, put it where you got it.  Is that some kind of muscle twitch, or did you really give me the finger?  Are you giving me shit today, on New Release day?  I can fix that, you know.  See this?  This is your hand.  See this?  This is your finger.  See this?  This is my mouth.  See this?  This is me putting your fucking finger in my fucking mouth and biting it the fuck off.  Oh, don’t cry now, dumbshit.  That’s what you get.

If you’re going to be this way, then fine.  I’m tired of your blubbering.  How’s this?  How about I just rip your wrist open?  You like that, fucker?  Stop making a scene.  Okay, you’re asking for it.  Your jugular’s a little tough and rubbery, but I just bite right through all of that.  Ahh, there it comes.  See, stupid fuck?  This is your blood.  You’re a fucking geyser, all over my clean floor.  Look at what you’re doing to my shelves!  You’re going to have to pay for that.  Now you’re a mess, and I’m chewing on your trachea, tough like beef jerky.  What do you have to say to that one, eh?  Don’t mess with the fucking Duke.  Just a few more mouthfuls of your gurgling throat then I really have to get back to work.

Cleanup on aisle five.  Yeah, like that’s going to happen here.  It’s murder getting good help.  It’s a fucking video store, for Christ’s sake, and you just can’t get anyone decent to work any more.  I’m here all the time.  Who else is going to put up with all of this shit?

Aw, Jesus.  Yeah, yeah, I see that it’s a fucking mess, so stay the fuck away from Westerns until it’s cleaned.  Are you seriously such a fucking retard, or is today just your lucky day?  Want to go lick one of the windows, or maybe you’d just like to lick the floor.  I didn’t think so.  Yeah, go ahead, stumble back, wide-eyed, all grimacing.  Yeah, you’re really scary.  Ooh, you make me want to piss myself. Yeah, get the fuck away, numbnuts.

Holy fuck.  That smell.  God, the same time every Tuesday.  There’s only one guy who smells like he’s been vomiting up someone else’s shit.  It’s got to be some kind of rancid cologne or something like rotting anal seepage.  No one alive would wear that shit if he really knew what it smelled like.  What the fuck is your problem with the smell?  You’re a bloated bag of pus, and you’re leaking all over my cunting store.

Here he comes, wobbling up to the counter, greasy black hair falling around his head in loose and dirty ringlets.  Nice suit, dickwad.  Going to get buried in that?  Let me guess.  You want to know if we have any Indian porn.  You ask the same fucking question every week.  What is it with you and fucking Indian porn?  Is it the dot?  You want to fuck that dot or something?  Yeah, you know, we do have something today.  Come with me and bring your greasy vomit-shit smell with you.  Let’s go to the Tank.

Ahh, the Spank Tank, the Sticky Room, the Eww Room.  Here you go, you sick fuck.  How about New Delhi First-Time DPs?  Yeah, you like that?  Like that fucking dot, don’t you?  How do you like this, then?  How about if I just grab your head like a melon and drive my thumbs into your fucking forehead and make a dot for you?  Like that?  You screaming because you like it?  I’m tired of playing with you, so one final squeeze.  Love that crunch.  Look at your face. You’re nothing but a smelly pile of gooey brain and broken bone, nice big bloody dot in the middle of your forehead.  Maybe some sick fuck will want to fuck you now, huh, you scat-smelling piece of shit?  It’s not enough that I’ve got you sick fucks jizzin’ all over the cover boxes back here.  Now, I’ve got to clean your shitty mess up, too.

I lick my thumbs.  Fuck!  Your rancid cologne’s stinking up my fucking hands! Goddamn it all to hell.  I can’t bring my fingers to my mouth to lick them clean without tasting your shit-vomit smell.  You fucking better not ruin my lunch, you worthless bastard.

Back to the counter.  What the fuck are you bitching about?  You’ve been waiting for thirty seconds without anyone to help you?  Sorry for your fucking inconvenience, but do you see anyone else working here?  Well do you, honey? Tell you what.  You want that fucking movie?  Fine.  No charge for this one, okay, since you had to wait half a goddamn minute.  Let me just slide it through and demagnetize it for you.  Come on around to the side of the counter.  Here, take the movie.  Right in your gut.  Let me just punch your free movie right into your fucking guts, honey, right up to my elbow.  Hey, can you feel my hand sticking out of your back?  Go ahead, gasp.  Cough and choke that warm blood right into my mouth.  Gurgle yourself into me.  Nothing like a little bloody snowballin’, eh, honey?

Aw, shit.  The tape case is too damn slippery because of all of your blood.  You made me drop it, you clumsy whore.  Well, pick it up.  If you’re going to twitch like that, you’re not going to able to hold onto it, you know.  Fine, fucking fine. Let me help you.  How about if I grab onto your spine and just yank it out for you, right out your fucking stomach.  Yeah, that’s it.  See?  This is your spine in my hand, honey.  Is this the nerve that makes you twitch?  Is this it?  What?  You don’t you want your movie?  Doesn’t matter.  You’re just a messy meat locker on my freshly mopped floor.  Thanks for fucking nothing.

I’ll just suck on your spine for a little treat.  Goddamn, it’s just like sucking a little Bayou crawdad head, the warm juices like a burst boil, right into my mouth.  Hey, I can floss, too, with your severed nerves.  Nice little snack.

Now look at this.  Some dumbass little kid running around my goddamn store all by herself.  Where’s your fucking mom, shit-for-brains?  Oh, I see her, over in the corner wall, looking at new releases, not knowing where the fuck her little shit kid is.  Nice parenting.  You think she’s safe, your little girl, with all of these Tuesday morning freaks in here?  Hey, you want to actually keep track of your child, you fucking twat?  She’s running around, little Suzy Pigtails, running into my fucking displays and knocking my fucking movies off the shelves.  Who’s going to put them back into order again, you, you fucking retard?

Little Suzy Pigtails, I see you.  You smell like bile and cotton candy.  You’re skipping through my store, arms out and flailing, screaming.  Is this your fucking house?  You think you can just run around my store and do whatever you fucking want?  Here’s to good parenting.  Are you watching what happens now, Mommy Pigtails?

Come on, Suzy.  Let me show you all of the fun movies we have in our kiddie kartoon section.  Yeah, you like that?  You like fucking Barney Shoots Smack? Turn your fucking head around, bitch, and look at the mess you made?  I’ll twist your fucking head around.  See the fucking mess?  Who’s going to have to pick that up?  You?  Hell no, not you.  It’s me.  I get the goddamn shit job of cleaning up your goddamn shit mess!  What, my hands grabbing your pigtails too tightly? Screaming for Mommy?  Fine.  This’ll shut you up, you cunting bitch.  Just using your pigtails to hold your head still, my dear.

You like history?  Let’s pretend you’re JFK, and my cock is Oswald’s Magic Bullet.  Right here in your mouth.  Take it.  All of it.  Fucking JFK, shot in the fucking head.  Ramming your little mouth with my magic bullet.  Back and to the left.  Back and to the left.  Gagging and crying for Mommy only makes it sweeter in the end, and here it is, the head shot.  Pow.  The back of your head explodes with my bloody magic cock bullet pushing out your bloody, splintered skull and ruined brain with that sucking sound that gets me every time.  Back and to the left.  Back and to the left.  Now look at that shelf.  You fucking suck.

Hope you don’t mind my tearing out some of that silk hair of yours as I pull myself out and twist your fucking head off.  Just like a frightened little jackrabbit, there, your heart beating so quickly.  First the twist, then a few popping spurts, then up from your neck comes the red gush, the fucking money shot.  Look what you did to my display!  You fucking ruined my display!  Do you see this?  Do you?  How about this, then?  How about I hold your head up, eyes wide, mouth spasming, and I’ll just carry your head around like a lantern and show you your mess.  See the fucking mess you made?  Can you see with your dead eyes wide open where the fucking movies belong on the shelves, you little head, or do I need to put a candle in you and let the love of Jesus shine through your eyes?  Here’s where Fred Fuckstone: Slaterock Bitch goes, and put Babe 3: BLT right there.  Do you get it now, you fucking pigtail lantern?  I think I’ll save you for dessert.  Who doesn’t like cotton candy?

Oh, I can hear Mommy now.  Oh, Suzy Pigtails, where are you?  Here she is.  Just follow the waving lantern.  Look familiar?  Oh, the screams.  God, you’re so annoying with that high pitch screaming.  Whose fault is this?  Is this good parenting?  See?  This is why shouldn’t leave your children unattended.  This is why you should make fucking sure they’re by your side every fucking minute. Next time, get a Goddamn leash on the little fuckers!  You take the stump, but I’m keeping my lantern.  No trade-backs!

What, don’t you want the stump?  Fine.  How about this, then?  I’m tired of you screaming shit at me.  If you’re not going to be an adult and assume some of the responsibility for letting your daughter ruin my fucking store, then how about this?  How about I just dive headlong into your stomach and tear into it?  Nice abs.  You work out?  Shut the fuck up and stop screaming!  Ahh, okay, the sweetbreads.  You could make a mean batch of haggis with what’s in here.  You taste like undercooked pork.  Sheesh.  What did you have for breakfast?  Coffee and toast?  Is that all?  That’s not an ample breakfast, you know.  Where’s the fucking protein?  What?  Nothing to say?  Cat got your tongue?  At least you’ve shut the fuck up.

Jesus Christ.  Look at this Goddamn place!  You dumbasses have fucked up my whole store!  I hate New Release Tuesday.  It’s not even lunchtime yet, and the whole store looks like a fucking slaughterhouse.  I get so sick of the same shit every fucking Tuesday.  I’m just beat.  Tired.  Dead.

Mark Justice is the author of Gauge Black:  Hell's Revenge.  Check it out for more pulpy goodness!  That one's a Western.  Obviously, this Website does not recommend going into zombie video rental stores or clerks being this disgruntled, but it does recommend reading more Mark Justice.  I am pleased to run on his work on drinkdrankdrunk!

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